Servant

 Saddle my horse. God for his mercy, what treachery is here! 

 DUCHESS. Why, what is it, my lord? 

 YORK. Give me my boots, I say. Saddle my horse. Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth, I will appeach the villain. 

 [Exit Servant.]

Servant

 DUCHESS. What is the matter? 

 YORK. Peace, foolish woman. 

 DUCHESS. I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle? 

 AUMERLE. Good mother, be content. It is no more Than my poor life must answer. 

 DUCHESS. Thy life answer? 

 YORK. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. 

 Re-enter Servant with boots.

Servant

 DUCHESS. Strike him, Aumerle! Poor boy, thou art amazed. [To Servant.] Hence, villain! Never more come in my sight. 

 [Exit Servant.]

Servant

 YORK. Give me my boots, I say. 

 DUCHESS. Why, York, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own? Have we more sons? Or are we like to have? Is not my teeming date drunk up with time? And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age And rob me of a happy mother’s name? Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own? 

 YORK. Thou fond mad woman, Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament And interchangeably set down their 

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